The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3)

by Philip J. Gould

  He reopened the book from its start and began slowly turning, page after page, to read the names appearing on it. He wasn’t surprised to see a number of high ranking officers and government officials from the world over, including the odd president or a deposed foreign leader.

  Ryan closed the drawer and quickly pulled open the final one. It was larger, box-like. A cursory glance informed him there was little of significance within it. A pair of well-worn shoes, a three-quarters finished bottle of Scotch whisky, a box of staples and a pile of ten cassette tapes now made redundant by the advancement of digital recording. Distractedly, he closed the box drawer and stood up; the black notebook was still in his hand.

  “I wonder,” he muttered, studying the small book. He knew he hadn’t finished the task the Chief had set him. The drawers still needed to be sorted through, the contents recycled or disposed of, but something itched at the forefront of his mind.

  Scooping up the laptop with his free hand, Ryan returned to his office within the SIS building and picked up the handset of his phone. Thumbing through Marty’s notebook, back to the page he’d seen Mitch Youngs’ name, he looked up the contact number. There were half a dozen but most of them had been struck through. The last, and freshest-looking, was a mobile number written in red ink.

  Without thinking or sitting down Ryan punched in the number and waited. A moment later the ringing tone filled his ear. It rang for ten, then fifteen seconds before totally surprising Ryan by being replaced by a voice.

  “Yea... ‘ello... ‘ello... Marty, is that you?”

  Ryan almost dropped the handset in shock. Quickly, he jabbed the cut-off button. It was like he’d been caught red-handed with his hand in the biscuit tin. Still standing, he pondered over the voice at the other end.

  Was that truly Mitch Youngs?

  Ryan wanted to call him back, to speak with the man who’d robbed him of the opportunity of killing the person responsible for Clara’s death. But he knew that the CIA agent would not readily talk with him, instead most likely hanging-up.

  Mitch Youngs had probably thought that it was Marty calling, which led Ryan to believe that only Marty knew his number and that Mitch, now in a difficult and precarious situation, had probably been expecting the man’s call.

  Okay, so he hasn’t heard that Marty is dead, Ryan thought. The veteran agent had died less than twenty-four hours earlier when his parachute had failed to open during the operation to destroy Project GYGES.

  “What were you up to Marty?” he asked silently. An image of Marty scrabbling with the faulty ring-pull on his parachute came to mind. Ryan could still hear the man’s final words:

  “I hope you can forgive me for what I have done. I did what I thought was best...”

  “What did you do?” It came out as an accusation. So much had happened since the man had died; it seemed almost like a lifetime ago.

  “Okay, let’s see if we can bring you back from the dead and get us some answers.” With half an idea and feeling devious, Ryan left his office and almost skipped down the corridor towards the elevator.

  Good, foolproof voice replicating software wasn’t available to the general public, and not believed to exist in reality. With businesses investing heavily in voice biometrics in their battle to overcome fraud, having the means to copy anyone’s voice would be seen as detrimental and a security concern.

  MI6 didn’t have such misgivings, instead investing millions in developing and advancing the technology. In the world of clandestine operations, deception and the tools to aid it, helped bring evildoers to justice and kept the good people of Great Britain safe.

  Within the basement level of the SIS building at Vauxhall Cross overlooking the Thames, Ryan sat with Emily Porter and Lee McDermott, the head of the Audio Forensics Department. Lee looked like your stereotypical computer nerd; long black hair, round glasses, thick beard and moustache and wearing faded jeans and a black heavy metal T-shirt. Half an hour earlier Ryan had asked Lee if it was possible to change one’s voice to replicate another’s during a phone call. “We do it all the time,” was Lee’s prompt response, as if it were natural. Ryan had explained what he wanted to do and thirty minutes later the small room where voice analysis programming and interpretation took place was ready and waiting to expedite Ryan’s request.

  “How does it all work?” Emily asked Lee, marvelling at the recording and analysis equipment that filled the wall ahead of her. A sound mixing desk ran the length of the wall with hundreds of switches and buttons arrayed in various positions. She suddenly had the overwhelming feeling of being in a recording studio like Abbey Road, ‘cutting’ a record.

  “It’s terribly boring to explain,” Lee started, “but in a nutshell, we’ve uploaded thousands of recorded sound bites belonging to the person you want to impersonate. Our computers analyse the vocals, including the pitch, tone and resonance. It then replicates his or her voice box, giving it the ability to reproduce sound matching the originator’s voice and speech patterns.”

  “Is it accurate?” asked Ryan.

  “97%... which is above acceptance levels for most voice biometric analysis systems. It’s very powerful stuff... and something of a nice toy to play with. It’s great fun reimagining pieces of music using your favourite recording artist. Can you imagine Ozzy Osbourne singing a Justin Bieber song? Or Ronnie James Dio doing a cover of Kylie’s Locomotion? It’s brilliant, I can tell ya. I’ve got tons of John Lennon doing different stuff; and Freddie Mercury. And Elvis... to me, he’s very much alive!” Lee was speaking exuberantly.

  “All impressive but can we get back to the point?” urged Ryan. He collected stamps but doubted he could speak with half as much enthusiasm about a Penny Black or The Tyrian Plum, both of which were very rare and expensive.

  “Ahem... quite.” Lee turned back to the wall of equipment. “Once the voice is ‘locked in’, all you need do is speak into the microphone and the computer does the rest. Here,” he handed Ryan a microphone on a long lead, “give it a go.”

  Ryan accepted the microphone. Holding it, he felt like a compere at a talent competition in a holiday resort, or someone about to burst into song. He had the sudden urge to swing it around like it was a lasso, mimicking a rock star. Shaking off the silliness, he turned to the Forensic Voice Analyst. “What do I say...?” he said, falling silent when he heard Marty’s voice flow out of a set of speakers in front of him, repeating what he had just said.

  “What do I say...?”

  “Woah.” He couldn’t pretend or fail to be impressed.

  “Even you could do it,” Lee said, passing a second microphone over to Emily.

  “I don’t know... I feel a bit stupid...” Like before, the computer converted her words into Marty’s voice.

  “I don’t know... I feel a bit stupid...” Emily started to giggle.

  “With regards to doing this over a phone...?” Ryan didn’t need to explain what he wanted to know.

  Emily handed the microphone back to Lee.

  “You make the call through the computer. You wear one of those headsets,” Lee indicated a pair of earphones lying to one side, a big over-the-ear set, “and speak into the microphone as though you were talking on your mobile. Your call-ee will be none the wiser. He won’t hear your voice, but instead hear the programmed voice. Marty’s, in this case.”

  “All sounds good, Lee. This had better work.”

  “Like I said, Ryan. 97% match rate. Even if the guy was still working with CIA and they were using voice analysis software, we’ve bested everything they’ve got. Every time.”

  “Okay. I’ll go grab myself a coffee and then we can get started.”

  “Yea... ‘ello. Marty?”

  “Mitch?”

  “Where’ve you been ol’ buddy? I’ve left you about a thousand messages. Never mind, listen: I took care
of it, as you requested. George is dead. It wasn’t easy, and I’m in a bit of a fix, but it’s done. You owe me big time, pal!”

  “I saw that you’d come through. Tell me, how did he die?”

  “Quietly. It helped that he was weaker than a six-week-old puppy.” Mitch started to laugh. “The guy’s been undergoing treatment for cancer, can you believe that? If you hadn’t been in such a hurry, nature would have taken care of him soon enough. But Marty, listen − I now need your help.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Cuba.”

  “How’d you manage to get over the border? I thought you Americans called Guantanamo Bay ‘The Island’ owing to its remoteness?”

  “I know someone who knows someone. A schmuck called Raul Martinez. I had some dirt on him. Anyhow, Marty, I need you to get me out of Cuba. Fast. And I need a new ID and money. Lots of it!”

  “Okay, Mitch. I’ve got someone in the area who can assist. I’ll get you papers, a new identity and a life some place safe. Where d’you fancy?”

  “Timbuk-friggin-tu if you like... jus’ get me the hell outta here.”

  “All right... Where do I send my person?”

  “I’m in a small place a little west of Havana called San Cristóbal. Have your rep call me on this number when they are close. I’ll give my location when they are near. And Marty... after this, let’s call it even. I can’t see how I’ll be any use to you now anyway. My career in the agency is finished.”

  Ryan looked across at Lee and Emily; both wore headphones and had been listening to both sides of the conversation. “Fair enough,” said Ryan. “Good luck.” He disconnected the call with a flick of a switch. “You’re going to need it,” he said softly into the room, laying the microphone down on the mixing desk and removing his headphones.

  “Tell me that wasn’t fun?” said Lee, smiling. He was powering down the audio analysis equipment, twisting knobs and pressing buttons.

  “I guess you don’t get out much,” replied Ryan soberly.

  Chapter Five

  Sophie

  “What do you mean an excursion into the city?” Sophie wasn’t keen on sight-seeing, it was a waste of time. She just wanted to find Mitch Youngs. Find him and kill him, and then get a flight to England without using any more serum than she needed. Checking her supply that morning, she’d counted seven days’ worth.

  Just seven days of appearing normal, that was all that was left.

  After that...

  She tried not to dwell on it, though thoughts regularly strayed to the concern, never leaving her entirely.

  They’d landed at José Martí International Airport in Havana two hours earlier and Barry had hired a white Hyundai Accent from a car rental stand within the terminal. They had travelled light with just a backpack and a carry-on case for luggage. The rest, including all their weapons, were left in the SUV back at Miami Airport.

  Moments earlier Barry had steered the car into a parking area located outside the airport where he’d instructed Sophie to meet him. Sophie was now in the passenger seat having stowed her backpack in the Hyundai’s boot and looked comfortable in a turquoise flower-print summer-dress. Barry felt his eyes wander down Sophie’s slender body, focusing on her lightly-tanned legs that appeared below the hem of her dress, just below the knee. She paid him no notice as she buckled up. He tore his eyes away from her and regained his senses.

  “I just got off the phone with Ryan,” Barry started. “He says you’ll want to do this. We’re to meet up with her at a place called La Fontana Grill, Bar and Lounge.” Barry turned his gaze and set the vehicle moving.

  “Her?” Sophie raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

  “Ryan didn’t elaborate. All he said was she knew your father, albeit briefly. I checked the address; it’s about half an hour’s drive across the city. Unless you want to take the scenic route.”

  Sophie looked to seriously consider the suggestion. Had she been a normal young woman the prospect of touring Cuba would have delighted her. Being able to put all thoughts aside of the events from the past four months − even for just a couple of hours − seemed like too much of a luxury.

  “No time for sight-seeing,” she said gloomily. “Maybe we can come back... when this is all over.” Though the words tumbled from her mouth, Sophie lacked belief; she seriously doubted there would ever be a day when the nightmare that was becoming her life, would truly be over.

  Barry snorted. “There are better places than this in the world,” he said, thinking of many. “Though... you have to admit, it kind-a has a timeless charm to it. Unspoilt by progress.”

  Sophie was turned from Barry and peering out towards the dusty, hot roads of Cuba.

  Although there were modern influences affecting the country, Cuba was relatively unaffected by the advancements of the West, perpetually living in a time long forgotten. Since the Cuban revolution in 1959 and the missile crisis of 1962, Cuba had virtually stood still. As they drove, classic American cars from the 1940s trundled by often, and they passed many locals wearing outfits from a yester-year decade. No new American cars had been shipped onto the island since before the trade embargo was sanctioned between the States and Cuba, and the only modern vehicles passing on the roads were European or from Asia.

  “Not tarnished by commercialism,” replied Sophie. “I quite like a place that doesn’t have a Starbucks’ or a Mcdonalds’ franchise.”

  A little over forty-five minutes later owing to traffic, Barry parked up the car in a space not far from the seafront. Together with Sophie, he crossed a busy road towards a row of elegant buildings, mostly large and grandiose, light-painted or white-washed − all very clean looking. Palm trees stood sentinel within the grounds of each of the properties, giving it a tropical feel. Well, this is the Caribbean, mused Sophie.

  Barry stepped up onto the kerb, reaching for Sophie’s hand. Accepting it she suddenly felt small, like she were the child her birth certificate stated rather than the woman her genetically altered DNA had speedily transformed her into.

  A pang of grief hit her as she recalled her father. It wasn’t that long ago when he had led her by the hand from that laboratory building. Sure, she appeared to be twenty-one (and would continue to for a very long time, thanks dad), but her heart would only have been beating for four years come the next April.

  Barry smiled. “Come, it’s this way.”

  Amongst the scattering of mansions, hotels, restaurants and shops, La Fontana Grill, Bar and Lounge was easily found.

  A single-storey brick and timber building with a warm, welcoming facade gave way to a sprawling dining and bar area that stretched deep inside; it branched to a covered area outdoors where a bronze water feature of a semi-naked woman stood prominent in the background. A stage on the left was prepared for a band; drums, keyboard and guitars, but no one played. At the furthest point were the kitchens, a glass wall partitioning the restaurant from the chefs preparing food, though the rich smells of cooking wafted through the air.

  Even though it was mid-afternoon the place was busy with diners. Waitresses dressed in combinations of black skirt and blouse, or black skirt and white blouse with black aprons tied about their waists, moved purposely around the tables which were placed canteen-like in rows that could each seat twelve or more.

  Sophie followed Barry into the restaurant, immediately taken in by the relaxed atmosphere and the coolness of the air-conditioning. Strong aromas of grilled fish and barbecued chicken assailed their nostrils, reminding them both that they’d not eaten since breakfast.

  “Do you know what she looks like?” Sophie was peering around the room. Standing at the entrance she felt conspicuous.

  “No. Ryan indicated that she was white, so shouldn’t be too hard to find her.” The restaurant was filled mostly with Cubans but one or two groups of foreign tourists were dot
ted about the place. “She’s masquerading as Canadian. Americans are not permitted in Cuba. Not formally.”

  A waitress approached from the centre of the room. “Mesa para dos, si?” She spoke in Spanish. A badge pinned to her blouse indicated her name was Maria.

  “Um... we’re English...” started Barry. Sophie interjected before he could continue. The waitress had asked whether they wanted a table for two.

  “Hemos hecho arreglos para conocer a alguien. Un canadiense. Está ella aquí?” We have arranged to meet someone. A Canadian. Is she here?

  Barry turned and looked at Sophie, impressed.

  “Si,” Maria replied. “She’s in the bar area.” She spoke English with barely an accent. “Come... I’ll show you.”

  “You weren’t lying about speaking Spanish.”

  “Nunca miento... I never lie.” Sophie smiled and stepped after Maria, a noticeable skip in her step. Barry followed close behind.

  Katherine Jenkins was sitting on a bar stool at a small round cocktail table nursing a margarita glass with half of its contents already consumed. Ice cubes and a slice of lime bobbed up and down on its liquid surface. Two empty glasses were pushed aside, but close by. Matching lipstick marks upon their rims indicated they were relatives of the one Katherine was now drinking, a telling footnote to either how long the woman had been waiting, or how in need of intoxication she was.

  Seeing the empty glasses, Barry felt the need to apologise. “I hope we haven’t kept you too long,” he said. Ryan had set the meeting for 3:00 p.m. It was only a little after.

  Katherine smiled. “Not long. I just felt like I needed a drink,” she said. “Or three. After the day I’ve had...” she let the sentence trail off. “Please... my manners. Join me. Have you ever had margaritas? These Cuban ones are... woo!” she made a shooting gesture with a hand and it was clear to Barry that she was a little drunk.